


Tumblr Prompts

by Magical_Destiny



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Crack, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Sickfic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 11:37:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11850771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magical_Destiny/pseuds/Magical_Destiny
Summary: Oneshots written for prompts on Tumblr.1) Comfort Food: Hannigram (crack/fluff)2) Rampage: Molly/Will (angst)3) Alone, Finally: Hannigram (feels and fluff)





	1. Comfort Food

**Author's Note:**

> All prompts came from [this list.](http://magicaldestiny.tumblr.com/post/163887853325/send-me-a-number-and-ill-write-a-micro-story) This first ficlet was written for [ hannibalnuxvoxmica](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibalnuxvoxmica/pseuds/hannibalnuxvoxmica)/[@hannibalnuxvomica](https://hannibalnuxvomica.tumblr.com). <3

To all appearances, Hannibal is never ill. It’s an image he has always been glad to present to the world, even before his time in the proverbial spotlight. Physical weakness is such a distasteful thing. Of course, looks can be deceiving. Hannibal _does_ get sick on occasion. He’s managed to muscle and medicate his way through all the illnesses of his adult life—colds, even the occasional bout of flu—without attracting anyone’s notice. But now that he has another person living with him full time, carrying on a charade about his health is something of a lost cause.

He can hear Will downstairs, moving through the kitchen with too much clanging for Hannibal’s comfort. He hopes he’s being careful with the utensils and the cutting boards. Will is sometimes too utilitarian with the things he sees only as tools. Hannibal suppresses a sigh. Or at least that’s his preferred explanation of events when his stuffed sinuses don’t respond to his wishes.

The scent of Will’s efforts is wafting up the stairs and under their bedroom door. It’s a rather delicious and savory aroma. Hannibal is impressed. Impressed enough to heave himself up, put on a robe, and attempt the appearance of something other than infirm misery. The appearance is admittedly hampered by the way he shuffles down the stairs, but Will doesn’t witness it, so it hardly counts.

Will is stirring a large pot of what Hannibal’s incapacitated nose can’t identify as beef stew until he sees the sliced beef bubbling away in the broth.

“How are you feeling?” asks Will, stirring with admirable concentration. Hannibal wishes he felt more like inquiring about Will’s recipe and less like collapsing into the nearest chair. He settles for seating himself on one of the raised stools around the kitchen island. It feels like a long and arduous climb. He’s still trying to formulate a reply that’s a bit more dignified than _like death_ when Will chuckles to himself. “That bad, huh?”

Hannibal chafes at being so easily seen through, but forcing his lungs and vocal cords to form words seems like far too much effort. He soothes his wounded pride by admiring Will’s forearms as he stirs.

“Should be done in a minute,” Will adds. He drops a spoon into a small bowl and ladles a tiny serving of stew inside, setting it on the island before turning back to the stovetop. It’s thick and steaming. The peas and carrots look tender, and the barley seems thoroughly cooked. Even the meat looks done to perfection.

Hannibal wonders why on earth Will has given him such a small serving. Worse, he wonders why he can’t smell any seasoning. His nose isn’t reliable at the moment, but it’s never failed him quite so drastically before. He reaches for the spoon and takes a tentative bite—

—which only confirms that there isn’t an ounce of seasoning in the stew. Hannibal can’t quite believe that Will could be so culinarily naive. He’d assisted him countless times in the kitchen; surely he’d picked up a few things along the way? Hannibal tries to remember if he’s ever eaten anything Will made without assistance—and comes up empty. 

Hannibal is horrified.

He feels Will’s eyes on him. When he looks up to meet them, Will is wearing a very strange expression.

“How is it?” he asks, voice strained. Hannibal perceives the telltale signs of anxiety—muscle tension, stiff posture, tight voice—and is astonished that Will cares so much for his opinion of his cooking. He swallows the abominably bland stew and steels himself for a truly heinous lie.

“Good,” he replies. The word feels nearly as tasteless as the stew. “It’s—“ He trails off and searches for a word that sounds like _delicious_ and means _proof of an indifferent God._

“For the dogs,” Will interrupts. The strain in his voice finally erupts into a laugh. “I was going to taste it to make sure it wasn’t too hot. They love beef stew. It’s great comfort food, you know.” Will smiles in a way that can only be described as _wicked_.

For a long moment, Hannibal can’t remember why he didn’t definitively kill Will any of the times he’d tried.

“I made you soup, too,” Will continues after the evil leaks from his smile. “I was waiting for it to cool before I called you.”

Hannibal finally notices the second pot on the stove, quietly leaking steam.

Will bends down to ladle the thick stew into the dogs’ bowls. The pack comes running at his whistle, falling on the food as though Will doesn’t feed them twice a day. Will washes his hands and ladles a bowl for Hannibal from the second pot. Hannibal is grateful to note that he’s been given a heaping serving of savory broth, tender beef, and thick-sliced carrots and potatoes. And _seasoning._ Hannibal decides that sometimes God is benevolent, and spoons a large and flavorful bite into his mouth. He closes his eyes and hums in satisfaction. Will had learned something from him after all.

A growl erupts from the dog bowls. Will _tsks_ loudly. “Share,” he reprimands, and the dogs subside at once. “I’ll get you more in a minute. Do you want more?” The statement was addressed to the dogs, the question to Hannibal.

Hannibal finally processes the fact that he and the dogs are being fed at the same time. He isn’t sure whether to be offended or overjoyed by the fact that he’s officially part of the pack. 

He settles for asking for seconds.


	2. Rampage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This oneshot was written for [arciam](http://arciam.tumblr.com). <3

The photo is blurry and the vantage point is all wrong. It’s obviously a picture that’s been zoomed and cropped to within an inch of its life, the focus forced where it was never meant to be. Still, the image is sharp enough to clearly identify facial features and expressions. Molly doesn’t entertain any reasonable doubts that she’s looking at a photo of Will.

_MURDER HUSBANDS’ RAMPAGE_ , the _TattleCrime_ headline screams. Molly’s only ever seen this tabloid on racks in supermarket checkout lines. She’s never bought one—never wanted to. Someone’s shoved this copy in her mailbox. Molly presses her lips into a tight line and tries not to wonder which of her neighbors had done it and whether they’d meant it as a kindness or an accusation. She folds the tabloid in half and tucks it under her arm in case Wally comes out of the house.

Her legs take some convincing before they’ll carry her back up the gravel driveway, but she manages. The motion frees her mind of its sudden rictus. Her thoughts flow again, but slowly, in tight circles that leave an empty ringing between her ears. She listens instead to the crunch of the gravel under her feet and the murmur of wind through the naked branches overhead. Her breath curls, steams, and fades away. She passes the front steps, shoving the rest of the mail in her pocket as she goes. Plucks the matches from beside the grill.

( _Do you want to cook out this weekend?_ Will asked, many, many weekends ago. Molly can’t remember her answer.)

Will isn’t the only one in the photo. She’d recognized the man beside him from the media circus that surrounded his trial. _Hannibal the Cannibal_ is the name that rises from her mind at the sight of him. It’d been plastered under his photo on every news station in the country. He’d always looked contained in the stock mug shot she’d seen too many times to count. Sharp cheeks and full lips and deep-set eyes. Mild and still as a shark waiting for the scent of blood.

In the photo with Will, he’s smiling.

The fire pit is out back. Will had dug it for Wally last summer when he requested a campfire to make s’mores. Molly clutches the paper too tight in the instant before she tosses it onto the pile of cold ashes. The strike of the match is sharp and loud. The flame hisses quietly, pulling at the air around it. Molly tosses it down.

( _Like this_ , Will said, showing Wally the way to roast the marshmallows without blackening them. _Burning things is easy. It takes patience to get them just right._ )

The paper catches instantly, of course. The fire blazes bright and brief, curling the pages into red-edged ash. The bits nearest the edge go black and cold as they bleed off the last of their heat. The photo and the headline are gone, but Molly can still see them, as though they’ve imprinted themselves into the embers and curling smoke. At least now Wally won’t see them.

The chill is finally starting to sting her cheeks; she goes inside the house. Hangs her hat and scarf beside Will’s hat and scarf and tries to remember who bought what for whom. They’d had several Christmases and birthdays in this house. She walks into their bedroom and sits on their bed. Will’s clothes are still folded in the dresser against the wall. His shoes are still in the closet. Molly goes to look at them. They barely take up any space. He always kept them out of her way.

(She insisted that his shoes could take up her space. That _he_ could. _That’s what marriage is all about_ , she said. Will laughed and kept his shoes off to one side anyway.)

Molly doesn’t keep any space for herself, except for a single drawer in her jewelry box. She keeps her wedding band from her first marriage there, and a photo of her late husband. _First_ late husband, she corrects herself.

She drifts to the jewelry box and slides the drawer open. It’s a picture they took on the baseball field a long time before his diagnosis. She looks at the picture until the ache becomes too sharp to stand. The drawer scrapes when she shuts it.

(He’d been young for cancer; even the doctors said so. Right up to the moment he died of it. He _was_ too young. They both were.)

The thought at the edge of her mind is ugly and she doesn’t want to acknowledge it, but it comes anyway.

She wonders what she did to deserve always ending up alone.

(She and Will used to have a stupid joke, one of many. _This coffee is cold_ , they’d say. Or _there were no parking places_ or _there’s no milk_.

_I must have been an asshole in a previous life_ , they’d conclude.

Will always laughed when she said it. _You? I don’t believe it._

He didn’t. She didn’t believe it of him, either. Now she wonders what lives he led before she knew him.)

She drifts to the window and follows the thin thread of smoke back to the fire pit. She can still see the photo behind her eyes. She closes them and faces it.

Will looking relaxed, smiling. He looked happy, she thinks. Maybe he is.

He’s alive somewhere, and he hasn’t reached out to her. Protecting her from something, she figures. She’d suspect he was protecting her from Hannibal Lecter, but the photo and the secret smiles tell a different story. He’s protecting her from the fact that he’s alive and happy—and not with her. It’s a thought that feels like holding fire against her skin, but Molly doesn’t flinch.

(In the hospital, before her husband passed, Molly’s parents came to be with her. _Chin up, Molly_ , her dad said. Her mom was crying too hard to speak. _You’re strong enough, even for this._ )

“Mom?”

Wally’s voice is coming down the hall. He’s been sticking close, trying to think of things for the two of them to do. Looking to put a smile on her face. He’s a sweet kid. His dad would’ve loved him. Will _did_ love him.

(Wally announced he wanted to go fishing with Will a week after she introduced the two of them. Will showed him a few things even Molly didn’t know about lines, rods, and bait. Will looked happy. He always looked happiest when he had something to give.)

Molly pulls in a deep breath and decides not to take two fathers away from Wally. All he’ll know is that Will is dead. She couldn’t protect him from his father’s death, but she can protect him from _this_. Lies are sometimes the only gift a mother has to give. It’s a hard world, and happiness is slick as hell when you try to get your fingers around it. So it slipped through her hands one more time. That’s all right.

( _It’s not all right_ , her mom said when the doctors told Molly to make her peace and say her goodbyes. _Nothing about this is all right._ Dad held her as she cried. Molly stood by her husband’s hospital bed in silence.)

_Rampage_ , the headline said. _String of Killings!_ Molly distances herself from the sordid details. It’s the most obvious sort of rampage, painted in the most visceral hues of death. But destruction can also be quiet and contained. As contained as a tiny hospital room when a heart monitor finally drops from a steady _beep_ to a thin, dead drone. As quiet as Will’s rapid breaths when he woke up from one of his nightmares and assured her that the carnage behind his eyes was long past.

( _I’m fine_ , he said, every time. _It’s nothing. Only shadows and scars._ )

Love, Molly thinks, is the quietest sort of rampage.

“Mom?” Wally asks again, from the doorway. Molly breathes. Before she turns, she arranges a smile on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll leave it to the discretion of the reader as to whether TattleCrime was right about the Murder Husbands leaving a trail of bodies. Personally, I think that Will and Hannibal popped up in the background of a tourist pic, and Freddie ran wild with connecting every stray murder in a thousand mile radius. :p
> 
> Anyway, in conclusion, MOLLY DOESN’T DESERVE THIS AND I’M AWFUL FOR WRITING IT. Why, arciam, whyyyy. 


	3. Alone, Finally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This oneshot was written for [lovecrimemp3](http://lovecrimemp3.tumblr.com). <3

The boat carrying them to their new home is named _Soledad._ Hannibal gives the name a thoughtful look, but remains silent as the motor growls and churns up white foam.

Will watches the shore shrink behind them and runs a finger over the scar on his cheek absently. There’s a faint twinge under his skin. Severed nerve endings stirring, trying to cry out their damaged state. They can’t, of course, and Will is left with a patch of numb skin. Hannibal says the scar will fade until it’s no longer noticeable to anyone but themselves, and only since they witnessed the scar’s creation and stages of healing.

He turns away from the shore and watches the horizon. The captain of their rented ship speaks only Spanish, which rules out conversation. For Will, anyway. Hannibal had chatted easily enough with the man before boarding. Will is glad to be excused from the need for small talk. All his energy is tied up in watching the dark line on the horizon spread and rise until it’s discernibly a coastline, empty of all signs of life but one: a house half-buried in the tree line.

The purposeful isolation of the design reminds Will of his house in Wolf Trap. He remembers the cold joy of looking in every direction and seeing no one, knowing that he’d managed to keep the entire world at bay. He remembers the bitter satisfaction of discovering it was the right thing to do. He’d felt he deserved to be alone more than he’d really wanted it. He’d thought no one could reach him anyway.

Hannibal is still silent, watching the slow progress of the clouds and the swift churn of the boat. Will hears his voice anyway, a whisper from long ago.

_You’re not alone, Will. I’m standing right beside you._

The motor quiets and dies as they near the single dock. The prow bumps gently against the boards and Will moves to help the captain secure the ropes. Once they’re firmly anchored, Hannibal passes him his suitcase and heaves his own onto the dock, following close behind. He pays the man and sends him on his way. The sun is cresting in the sky and the spray of the boat’s wake glitters brilliantly.

“Finally alone,” Hannibal says, voicing Will’s thoughts, as always. “Are you relieved?”

Will considers the sensation of a knot slowly untying in his chest. The pressure is off. No need to perform, only just to be. He nods. Hannibal mirrors his nod faintly and follows his gaze to the horizon.

“We were in public a long time. I’ve never known crowds to be so chafing.” _Until now,_ he doesn’t say, but Will hears it.

“Welcome to my world,” Will mutters, and can’t help his faint grin. He feels himself relaxing by degrees as the boat motor fades and gives way to the murmur of the waves. They’re the only two human beings for miles. From this view, they could be the only two people in the world.

Solitude has been a touchstone in Will’s tumultuous life. He feels the joy of loneliness now, but none of its familiar bite. There’s only one difference that can explain the change.

His _alone_ includes Hannibal now.


End file.
